The Santa Fe Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “They was riggin’ shelters between the wagons,” Grimes reported. “That means they’ll be there through the storm.”

  “All the better for us,” said Rowden. “We’ll strike in the mornin’, while the storm’s at its worst.”

  Gonzales had supper ready early, allowing everybody to eat ahead of the storm, and Woody spoke to them.

  “Every rider in the saddle until the thunder and lightning has passed. We’ll do our best to keep them from running, but don’t do anything foolish. I’d rather take the time to round up the herd, than take the time to bury one of you.”

  “Wiley an’ me will help,” Whit said, “if you got horses for us.”

  “You’re welcome to mounts from the remuda, and there’s saddles in Pit’s wagon,” said Woody. “We’re obliged to you.”

  “It’s our job as much as yours,” Wiley said proudly. “Mr. Pitkin’s hired us.”

  There were smiles among the riders, while Nell Pitkin had a special one for Bonita.

  Thunder rumbled, distant lightning walked grandly across the horizon, but there was nothing of a terrifying nature to spook the herd. The rain came in gray sheets, whipped by high wind, and it became difficult to keep a single fire going, for hot coffee. As long as there was a possibility the herd might run, Woody had kept every man in the saddle, but as the thunder and lightning diminished, he allowed them to seek shelter. The herd, helping itself to the available graze, was strung out along the river, and even through driving rain, could be watched from camp. The rain was cold, and as the wind died down, there were more fires as the riders sought to dry out. By midnight, the rain was steady, with a promise of lasting the night and beyond.

  “Lucky we crossed the Canadian while she was just a branch,” Vic said. “By mornin’, it’ll be bank-full.”

  But while they could hear the rushing of the river, the rain slacked and finally ceased an hour before dawn. Nobody was more surprised than Deuce Rowden.

  “We can still pick some of ’em off with Winchesters,” York Eagan insisted.

  “No,” said Rowden. “We been paid to kill ’em all, an’ where they’re holed up, there’s no way we can git close enough. We got to git ahead of ’em and lay an ambush.”

  The sun rose with a vengeance, but there was an abundance of mud, while water had collected in every arroyo and low area.

  “I think we’ll remain here for a day,” Woody said.

  While the only heavily loaded wagons were the two belonging to Wiley and Whit, they now were part of Pitkin’s outfit. Like it or not, they could progress no faster than the two wagons would allow.

  “I believe,” said Pitkin, “that we are within a hundred and fifty miles of Santa Fe.”

  “I’ve changed my mind about that map,” Gavin said. “I reckon I believe it now.”

  Woody laughed. “If it’s goin’ to be right about something, now’s the time.”

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out!” Woody shouted.

  The outfit again took the trail the day after the storm. Once the herd was moving and the riders had them under control, Woody again rode ahead. According to Pitkin’s map, there were springs, creeks, and rivers enough to provide adequate water the rest of the way to Santa Fe, but something kept Woody riding ahead.

  “I reckon I’ve been on too many drives through Indian country,” he told Nell. “I just can’t get it through my head that the minute I let up, everything won’t go to hell in a hand-basket.”

  She laughed, but he did not. He continued riding out ahead of the herd, looking for something, never knowing exactly what, but unsatisfied. Three days beyond the Canadian, Gavin spoke to him.

  “I’ve never seen you so unsettled. Do you know somethin’ the rest of us don’t?”

  “No,” Woody said. “I reckon I can’t get over the Indian threat. It ain’t costin’ us anything, me ridin’ ahead. Let’s just say I have a feeling—a bad feeling—that’s been on my back since before we crossed the Canadian. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t feel right unless I’m scoutin’ ahead of the herd. I reckon this will be my last drive, and maybe that’s gettin’ to me.”

  “Three days,” Watt Grimes grumbled, “an’ we’re no closer to ambushin’ that Pitkin bunch than we was at the Canadian. If they git much closer to Santa Fe, we might as well let ’em go. You forgettin’ Hankins told us he wanted ’em gunned down a long ways out, so’s Indians would git the blame?”

  “Pitkin’s got six riders, himself, two teamsters, an’ a cook,” said Deuce Rowden. “The rest are females. Tomorrow, we’re goin’ to light a fire under that bunch, make ’em throw caution to the wind, an’ come after us. We’ll choose the time an’ place.”

  “How do you aim to do that?” Haynes Wooten asked.

  “You’ll know tomorrow morning,” said Rowden. “Now we’re goin’ to find us a place to wait for ’em, and I promise you, they’ll be there.”

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out!” Woody shouted.

  Once the herd was moving without difficulty, Woody rode ahead. There hadn’t been a problem with water since leaving the Canadian River, but still he scouted the trail. Three hundred yards ahead, overlooking the trail, was a series of stone abutments. He rode wide of them purely from habit, for in Indian country the terrain was perfect for an ambush. He rode for what he believed was fifteen miles, and wheeling his horse, rode back to meet the oncoming herd. Approaching the stone abutments, he reined up, studying them. Then in the stillness came the roar of a Winchester. The slug struck Woody in the back, puffing dust from his shirt. He pitched over the withers of the horse and sprawled face-down. When he didn’t move, the horse snorted and trotted on, escaping the smell of blood.

  “A Winchester,” Gavin said.

  The other riders had heard the shot, and they weren’t surprised when Gavin raised his hat in a signal to mill the herd. Rusty, Naomi, and Nell were riding drag. Reining up his teams, Pitkin shouted at Rusty.

  “What has happened?”

  “We don’t know,” Rusty shouted back. “There was a shot. Something’s happened up ahead.”

  He said no more, galloping to join his comrades. Wiley and Whit leaped from their wagon boxes, demanding the horses Jania and Laketa rode. Riding hard, the outfit came together. Half a dozen miles ahead, Woody Miles lay unmoving, blood soaking the back of his dusty denim shirt…

  19

  Nell Pitkin’s mind swept back to that night so recently when she had tried to joke with Woody about his obsession, his constantly scouting ahead. But Woody hadn’t laughed, and she could now see him lying dead somewhere on the trail. Kicking her horse into a fast gallop, she pounded after the riders ahead of her. She had to get to Woody…

  “They’ll have heard the shot,” Deuce Rowden said. “Let ’em get within range and then cut ’em down. Make every shot count.”

  “Pitkin may not be ridin’ with ’em,” said Grady Beard. “What do you aim to do about him?”

  Rowden laughed. “We can git him anytime. What chance has one Englishman got agin all of us?”

  Wiley and Whit caught up to the rest of the riders, and the seven of them thundered along together. Long before they reached Woody, they could see his horse standing with dropped reins. When they could see Woody lying on the ground, Gavin began shouting to his riders.

  “Ambush,” Gavin shouted. “Rusty, you and Vic ride wide of that bluff, keepin’ to the east. Rest of you come with me.”

  Gavin galloped his horse up a rocky slope that would lead them up and behind the high rock abutment ahead. But Nell Pitkin was of a single mind, knowing only that Woody was hurt. On she galloped.

  “Nell, no!” Rusty shouted.

  But Nell paid no attention, and Rusty had but one chance to save her. Urging his horse into a fast gallop, he raced after her. But she was within range of the hidden bushwhackers, and rifle slugs began kicking up spurts of dust all around her. Lead slammed into her horse, and the dying animal screamed. It went down, pitching Nell over its head, and she stum
bled to her feet. Somehow, slugs whining all about him, Rusty reached Nell. Leaning out of the saddle, he swept the girl across the withers of his horse and galloped away. While Vic had no visible target, he was blazing away at the stone abutment whence had come the rain of lead. It subsided as Rusty rode out of range. The left sleeve of his shirt was bloody. Reining up, he slid Nell off the horse, and she looked in horror at his bloody arm.

  “Woody,” she cried. “I only wanted…”

  “I know what you wanted,” said Rusty, “but you were playing right into their hands. Woody’s been bushwhacked, and the varmints aimed to use him as bait to suck in the rest of us. We got to flush them out, before we can see to Woody.”

  His words were punctuated by a sudden burst of fire somewhere beyond the stone abutment. Suddenly, a man with a Winchester scrambled into view, and Vic shot him off the bluff. Speechless, Nell clung to Rusty. As suddenly as it had begun, the firing ceased, and the next sound they heard was a shout from Gavin.

  “Four of us are hit. Get Woody on his horse and back to the wagons, if you can. Any of you wounded?”

  “Me,” Rusty shouted, “but I’ll live. We’re goin’ after Woody.”

  But Nell was already there, seeking a pulse. She looked at Rusty and Vic, and tears streaked her face.

  “He’s dead,” she cried. “Woody’s dead.”

  “Maybe not,” said Vic, leaping from his saddle. He lifted Woody, feeling for the large artery in the neck. There he found a faint pulse.

  “He’s alive,” Vic said, “but not by much. Rusty’s hurt. You’ll have to help me get Woody onto his horse. You mount the horse and help me raise him bellydown over the withers.”

  Nell did her best, fear for Woody adding to her strength.

  “Now,” Vic said, “hold him in place and get him back to the outfit as quick as you can. Rusty, you ride with her. I’ll go help the others in whatever way I can.”

  Gavin and Ash had bloody shirts, while blood still pumped from a hole above Gavin’s right knee. Ash led his horse, while Gavin leaned on his, gripping the saddle horn. Blood ran down Wiley’s left arm and dripped from his fingers. Whit was bellydown across his saddle, and Wiley led both horses.

  “My God,” Vic said, “is Whit…?”

  “He ain’t quite,” said Wiley wearily, “but I’m scared…”

  “Where’s Nip?” Vic asked.

  “He’s the only one of us that wasn’t hit,” said Ash. “One of the varmints run for his horse and got away. Nip went after him.”

  Vic helped his comrades to mount their horses, and with Vic leading Whit’s horse, they rode back toward the herd and the wagons.

  “My God,” Gladstone Pitkin said, as they rode in. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  “Woody was ambushed,” said Vic. “They used him as bait to lure the rest of us.”

  “But…why?” Pitkin persisted.

  “We don’t know,” said Gavin. “Somehow, Woody seemed to know…to suspect…”

  He turned away, to the blanket upon which Woody lay. Gonzales had Woody’s shirt off, and Gavin breathed a little easier. The wound was high up, near where the arrow had been removed.

  Vic eased Whit off the horse and onto the blanket beside Woody. Bonita, Jania, and Laketa were there, removing Whit’s shirt.

  “I’ll take care of Whit and Wiley,” Bonita said. “Jania, you see to Ash’s wound, and Laketa, you take care of Rusty.”

  Already, Nell was doing her best to help Gonzales tend Woody’s wound, while Naomi was removing Gavin’s shirt. Everybody was occupied except Gladstone Pitkin, and it was then that he missed Nip Kelly.

  “Where is Mr. Kelly?” Pitkin asked nobody in particular.

  “One of the bushwhackers escaped,” said Gavin, “and Nip went after him.”

  Nip spared his horse as much as he could, and the bushwhacker ahead of him seemed to be doing the same. The day was young, the sky clear, and they both knew that before sundown one of them would die. Watt Grimes had seen the Texans coming, and while his comrades had died, Grimes had run for his horse. His only hope—if he had one—was to ambush his pursuer. It would be a difficult—if not impossible—feat, for Nip Kelly was expecting no less. Before topping a rise, he dismounted, proceeding afoot. Only when he could see a distant dust plume did he mount his horse and continue. The bushwhacker must get far enough ahead to double back, and Kelly hadn’t allowed him to do so. It was Kelly’s intention to crowd the outlaw until his horse played out, forcing him to take his stand where destiny decreed. The showdown came much sooner than Kelly had expected. Wary, seeing no telltale dust, Kelly proceeded on foot until he could see a grazing horse. Lame, the animal limped toward him, nickering. Kelly threw himself flat, and three slugs from a Winchester ripped the air just inches above his head. He rolled away, taking refuge behind the trunk of a huge pine. More lead tore off pine bark, and it showered down on him. He had been so busy dodging lead, he hadn’t been able to learn where his adversary was holed up. Using a yard-long dead stick, keeping his eyes straight ahead, he lifted his hat high enough to draw fire. It did, and he saw a puff of smoke rise from behind a pair of boulders. There was a crevice in between, apparently just right for a Winchester barrel.

  “You got me by the short hairs, hombre,” Kelly said to himself, “but only as long as I’m stuck right here in front of you.”

  Slowly, he began inching his way backward, using the enormous trunk of the pine for cover. He was about to do the very thing the bushwhacker would fear the most. Once out of the line of fire, he would be free to circle around and come up behind his antagonist. It would then be the bushwhacker at a disadvantage, for he wouldn’t know where Kelly was, and to move would risk a deadly case of lead poisoning.

  Kelly moved fast, for it was only a matter of time until the gunman grew desperate enough to risk changing position. There was a new volley of shots, as the bushwhacker sought to draw answering fire, to be sure his target hadn’t shifted. But Nip Kelly was deep enough into concealing brush that he got to his feet and began flanking the gunman. Once behind the man’s position, Kelly called out a challenge.

  “I’m behind you, mister. Leave the weapon where it is, and get up.”

  “Don’t shoot,” cried a frightened voice. “I’m gettin’ up.”

  He got up with a Colt in his hand, but his shot went wide, and he hadn’t a chance for another. Nip Kelly’s Winchester roared, and the gunman was flung backward into the pair of stones that had concealed him. Kelly was there in an instant, kneeling beside the man.

  “Why the ambush?” Kelly demanded. “Why was your bunch after us?”

  The dying man said nothing, his eyes clouded with pain.

  “Tell me,” said Kelly. “You have nothing more to lose.”

  The man’s laugh was bitter. “The…joke’s on… Hankins. Tobe Hankins…Santa Fe…tell him…tell him…Watt Grimes said…go to…hell…”

  His eyes were open, but the soul had departed. Nip Kelly stood there, his Winchester under his arm, and his mind drifted back over the years. Tobe Hankins. Was it the same Tobe Hankins Nip had known so long ago, in Missouri? Whoever the man was, what could he possibly have against Gladstone Pitkin and his riders?

  “It’ll bear some lookin’ into,” Kelly said aloud.

  Taking the outlaw’s Winchester, he returned to his horse. From his saddlebag he took a small notebook and a stub of pencil. He then wrote a message on a clean page in the notebook:

  If you don’t see me again, look for Tobe Hankins, Santa Fe. Bushwhackers. Nip.

  Kelly then did a strange thing. With all his strength, he took the Winchester that had belonged to Watt Grimes and drove its muzzle deep in the ground. Pulling back the gun’s hammer, he eased it down on one corner of the piece of paper. Mounting his horse, without looking back, he rode away. Along the Santa Fe Trail…seeking Tobe Hankins…

  Whit’s and Woody’s wounds were by far the most serious. While the lead had gone on through and hadn’t hit anything vi
tal, they had lost enormous amounts of blood. Nell Pitkin had worked beside Gonzales, treating Woody’s terrible wound, While Naomi had taken charge of Gavin. Bonita and Vic had first doctored Whit, and then Wiley. Jania and Laketa had taken care of Ash and Rusty. Gladstone Pitkin had been kept busy with the heating of water for the cleansing of wounds. Finally all the wounded had been tended to. Woody and Whit had been given whiskey, and were snoring noisily. The other wounds, at some time during the coming night, might require whiskey to fight infection. Until then, they were painful, but not life-threatening. Fortunately, when the outfit had milled the herd and gone to Woody’s aid, they were near a spring with adequate runoff.

  “The graze ain’t too plentiful,” Vic observed, “but it’ll have to do for maybe another two days.”

  Nobody mentioned Nip Kelly. There was virtually no sleep for those who had not been wounded, for every man with a wound required regular doses of whiskey to combat the threat of infection. Woody and Whit required almost constant attention to keep bandages in place so that the bleeding didn’t start again. By dawn, Rusty, Ash, and Wiley had begun to sweat, and the worst was over. It was near the end of the second day when Woody and Whit began to sweat, evidence they had won their fight with infection. After supper, Nell went looking for Rusty Pryor.

  “Rusty, I…I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but Woody’s been so sick…”

  “I understand,” Rusty said.

  “I want to ask a favor of you,” said Nell. “An awfully big favor, and I’m not sure I’ve the right to ask.”

  “Give it a try,” Rusty said.

  “Please don’t ever tell Woody…what I did…that I could have gotten you killed.”

  “I don’t aim to speak of it to anybody,” said Rusty. “It was a fool thing to do, and in no way could you have helped Woody, but I understand your feelings. If it had been Vic or me, instead of Woody, I expect Bonita or Laketa would have come to us, just like you tried to get to Woody. I can’t fault you for that.”