The only warning they had, as they walked toward the dock, was the flash of sunlight off Quando’s rifle muzzle.
“Look out!” shouted Felton.
He went down, drawing his Colt, as a rifle slug tore through Don’s new hat. Drawing his own Colt, Don ran, zigzagging as three more slugs narrowly missed him. Felton was right behind him when Quando saw his cause was lost and started to run. Don fired, and the lead ripped through Quando’s leg, dropping him. Rolling over on his back, he came up with his revolver in his hand but never fired a shot. Don and Felton fired together, the roar of their Colts merging like a drum roll. The shooting attracted attention, and men came on the run, one of them Sheriff DeShazo. Charlie, Red, and Mike were there too.
“Who in thunder was he?” Red wondered.
“I have no idea,” said Don, “unless he was part of that bunch that tried to ambush us on the desert. Sheriff, we’re on our way to board a ship, and we don’t have much time. Our amigos can tell you anything you need to know about Felton and me.”
The dead outlaw was taken away. Charlie, Red, and Mike stood there until the sailing ship drew away from the dock. They watched until it became a distant speck against the blue of the sky, and finally disappeared.
Here’s an excerpt from Ralph Compton’s
THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL—
the next exciting installment in the trail drive series,
available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks:
San Francisco, California. June 1, 1853.
Four men rode across the Sierra Nevada, bound for southwestern Wyoming. Their pack mule followed on a lead rope. At twenty-three, Lonnie Kilgore was the oldest of the four. Dallas Weaver was a year younger, while Dirk McNelly and Kirby Lowe were both several months shy of twenty-one. They reined up on a ridge to rest the horses and the pack mule.
“I’m glad I got to see California once,” Dirk McNelly said, “but I’ve never been so glad to be leavin’ a place in my life. It ain’t natural, everything always bein’ green. I like to see the falling leaves.”
“I reckon you’ll be seeing plenty of them in Texas,” said Kirby Lowe. “Remember, in just four years each of us has come out of the California goldfields with more than ten thousand dollars. Raising cows in Texas, starving through the dry years, and fighting the Comanches, you wouldn’t see half that much coin if you lived to be a hundred.”
“That’s the gospel truth if I ever heard it,” Dallas Weaver said. “Trouble is, what are we goin’ to do with what we’ve earned? A couple of bad years in Texas could break us.”
“Then maybe we’d better not settle in Texas,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Remember, on our way west, when we spent a couple of days at Jim Bridger’s trading post in Wyoming?”
“Yeah,” Dallas Weaver said. “Bridger’s an old mountain man, and what he don’t know about this high country likely ain’t worth knowing.”
“I’m thinking of something he said while we was there,” said Lonnie. “He talked about that range along the Green River in northeastern Utah, where the grass reaches up to a horse’s belly. He thought it would be grand for horses, cattle, or both. In the summer, herds of cattle could be driven into Washington, Oregon, Nevada, and California.”
“That ain’t all,” Kirby Lowe said. “It’ll be a while in coming, but the San Francisco newspapers was plumb full of stories about the building of the Union Pacific, a transcontinental railroad. It’ll run across southern Wyoming near where Bridger’s trading post is now. I doubt any of us will live long enough to see a railroad reach Texas.”
“A railroad can be as much a curse as a blessing,” said Dirk McNelly. “It’ll bring in droves of sodbusters, and it’ll mean the end of free range.”
“Forget about free range,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We have money to buy land, and if the price is right, we can buy a lot of it. Once you got a title to it, nobody can root you out. That’s my thinking.”
“The farther we are from civilization, the less the land will cost,” said Dallas Weaver, “but I’m not sure about this Green River range. Bridger was already having trouble with the Mormons when we was there four years ago, and he ain’t even in Utah.”
“Once we’ve filed on land and have a title to it, it’s ours,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “I’m not one to fight with my neighbors, but I won’t be pushed around. I think we should talk to Bridger about this range, and unless somebody’s already claiming it, we should consider buying four sections—or maybe eight—depending on the price.”
“Eight sections!” said Kirby Lowe. “My God, that’s more than five thousand acres.”
“With the Green River running through it,” Dirk McNelly said. “I like that.”
“So do I,” Kirby Lowe said, “but before we settle out here, I’d like to ride to Texas and see my folks. I ain’t seen ’em since I was sixteen.”
“I ain’t so sure my folks will want to see me,” said Dirk McNelly. “My old man called me a fool for wantin’ to go gallavantin’ off to California. I had to sneak off in the middle of the night.”
“After we talk to Bridger, if all this still seems like a good idea, we’ll be going back to Texas,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We’ll need cattle. We may have to rope the varmints out of the brush, but we can do that, if we must.”
“What about horses?” Kirby Lowe asked. “Even when it’s hard times in Texas, a good horse can set you back two hundred dollars.”
“There are some fine horses in California,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Once we’ve brought a herd of longhorns from Texas, we can bring in some brood mares from California.”
“One thing we have to consider is the Indians,” Dallas Weaver said. “From what Jim Bridger said, the Utes and Paiutes don’t take kindly to whites coming into the territory.”
“By now,” said Kirby Lowe, “there ought to be enough Mormons there to keep them busy. At least the Wind River Shoshones are friendly.”
“Yeah,” Dirk McNelly said, “but they’re too far north, in the Wind River Mountains.”
“I think this is another case where we’ll have to depend on Jim Bridger’s advice,” said Lonnie Kilgore.
The four of them rode on, still dressed as Texas cowboys, even after four long years in California. In each saddle boot there was a treasured Hawken rifle, and each of them had a tied-down Colt revolver on his right hip. Not until late afternoon did they discover they were being followed. Again, they had stopped to rest the horses, and it was Kirby Lowe who spoke.
“Maybe my eyes are playin’ tricks on me, but I’d swear I saw some dust back yonder a ways, along our back trail.”
“Whether you did or didn’t, this is no time to gamble,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “There’s always a horde of hombres around a gold camp who’d rather steal their gold than work for it. Remember last year, when three miners were bushwhacked when they rode out bound for home?”
“Yeah,” Dallas Weaver said, “and the bushwhackers were never caught. I think we’d do well to ride on a ways and then double back. This ain’t the kind of country where a man rides unless he has to. We can set up a little welcomin’ party of our own.”
“We’ll ride to the foot of this ridge,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “There we’ll leave the mule and our horses, doubling back on foot.”
They rode on, leaving a clear trail for their pursuers. Reining up in a thicket, they tied the mule and their horses.
“Dallas,” said Lonnie, “you and Dirk double back to the south and then west, keeping within range of the trail. Kirby, you and me will head north a ways, and then west. I’ll challenge these riders, and since we’ll be shooting from cover, we’ll let them make the first move. They could be other miners on their way home.”
“Well, hell,” Dirk McNelly said, “if they are, we still may have a fight on our hands. They’re likely to think we’re bushwhackers aimin’ to take their gold.”
“Maybe not,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Bushwhackers don’t shout a warning.”
The four men separated in
twos, taking the north and south sides of the back trail. A vengeful sun bore down on them, and the armpits of their shirts were soon soaked with sweat. They waited for more than an hour, their patience growing thin, before hearing the distinctive sound of trotting horses. There were four riders, and they looked like anything but miners. They rode on, and when they were within gun range, Lonnie Kilgore shouted a challenge.
“Rein up. Identify yourselves and tell us why you’re trailing us.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. Then, as one, the four went for their guns. It left the four friends from Texas little choice. Lonnie shot the lead man out of the saddle, while Dallas, Dirk, and Kirby accounted for the other three. Spooked by the shooting, their horses galloped down the ridge. There was dead silence, and none of the four who had been gunned down seemed alive.
“We might as well search them,” said Lonnie, “and see what we can find. Then we’ll go after their horses and search their saddlebags.”
“Lord, I hope they wasn’t miners on their way home,” Dirk McNelly said.
“I doubt they were,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Bushwhackers wouldn’t have challenged them, and if they didn’t have mischief on their minds, they wouldn’t have gone for their guns. They made the first move, and it was the wrong one. When a man pulls iron, it’s evidence aplenty that he’s up to no good.”
Each of them searched one of the dead men, and it was Dallas Weaver who recognized one of them.
“This is Jake Doolin,” said Dallas. “He’s been hanging around for months, and as for mining, he ain’t hit a lick. There’s been some strong suspicions that he’s one of a pack of coyotes who kill miners for their pokes.”
“I’ve heard that,” Lonnie said, “but nobody said it too loud. There was no proof.”
“There is now,” said Kirby. “Sure as hell, the four of ’em aimed to kill and rob us.”
“Question is,” Dirk said, “what do we do with them? I can’t see ridin’ all the way back to San Francisco to tell the law what we done.”
“We’ll leave them where they lay,” said Lonnie, “and anything we find that we can use, we’ll take with us.”
Searching the bodies of the four men, they came up with more than a thousand dollars in gold coin.
“Unless somebody’s hit pay dirt in Texas, that’ll buy three hundred cows,” Dirk said.
“Now,” said Dallas, “let’s round up their horses. We can take them with us, and it’ll be the start of a remuda for the trail drive from Texas.”
They soon found the four horses grazing and caught them without difficulty. There was a rifle in each saddle boot. But the saddlebags were a disappointment, for there was only a change of clothing, clean socks, and jerked beef.
“They didn’t aim to travel far from town,” Lonnie said. “They’d ride just far enough to do their killing and robbing, and be back at the gold camp before dark.”
“It’d be a shame, leaving these four good horses and saddles,” said Dirk, “but there’s a little matter of us having no bills of sale on any of ’em. They’re all branded, too.”
“Mex brands,” Lonnie said. “They likely were stolen somewhere below the border, and as long as these four dead coyotes have been hanging around San Francisco, I doubt anybody’s asked for a bill of sale. We’ll take those four horses with us on lead ropes.”
The four friends rode out. Three of the men had the newly acquired horses on leads, while Lonnie Kilgore led the fourth horse and the pack mule. They made camp for the night near a water hole in Nevada. They poured water on their small fire well before dark.
“I have some serious doubts about the direction we’re headed,” Lonnie said. “I think we ought to ride due north and take the Oregon Trail to Bridger’s trading post. Remember, when we was there before, Bridger told us the Mormons was settling around the Great Salt Lake? If we ride a straight line from here to Bridger’s, we’ll be passing right through the Mormon settlements.”
“It’ll take us maybe a day longer,” said Dallas, “and we’d come out somewhere in Idaho, I reckon.”*
“Them Mormons has had four years to settle out here since we talked to Bridger,” Dirk said. “There must be thousands of ’em by now. I kinda like that idea of ridin’ north from here, and then taking the Oregon Trail to Bridger’s.”
“One thing wrong with that,” Kirby said. “We’ll have to cross South Pass.”
“That won’t be a problem,” said Lonnie, “since we have no wagons. Horses and mules can make it, even if we have to dismount and lead them. If we settle along the Green, I’ll gamble that we’ll be in trouble with the Mormons soon enough. I think we’d do well to go north from here until we reach the Oregon Trail. Even with crossing South Pass, we can still make it in about six days.”
“I like that,” Dallas said. “Nothing but a fool fights, if he can avoid it.”
“I’ll go along,” said Dirk. “We’ll likely have all the Mormon trouble we can handle after we bring that trail drive from Texas.”
“Count me in,” Kirby said. “We got to claim the land, get us a herd of cows and some prime horses. Then will be soon enough to fight with anybody that don’t like us.”
They had reached an agreement, and there seemed little else to do except roll in their blankets and get some sleep.
*Near the present-day town of Twin Fall, Idaho.
The Old Spanish Trail Page 28
