Trail to Cottonwood Falls

by Ralph Compton

  Ed booted the roan for the hill. Holding his right hand up, he approached them. “Ho! Great chiefs and warriors.”

  A prune-faced man with the most feathers rode downhill to meet with him. “You got many wa-hoos.”

  “Let us go on the top of this hill, smoke the pipe, and speak of the cattle.”

  The chief agreed and said something guttural to the rest. The other stone faces agreed and turned their skinny ponies that way too. So far his negotiations with this bunch was going fine. That camp boy better burn daylight getting back with the firewater. He’d sure need it.

  He dismounted and the roan went to chomping grass. He drew out two pints of whiskey and they went to sit over the north brink so the wind that rippled the short green carpet of grass wasn’t so bad. He looked off anxiously to the north for the boy he knew could not possibly be there yet. Hurry was all he could think about.

  At last the six Indians and Ed sat cross-legged in a semicircle, the chief using his flat hand to show from right to left all the land the great chief in Washington had given his people. The man’s high cheekbones looked encased in old buffalo leather and his dark eyes were dulled by many years of squinting from the too-bright prairie sun. Ed decided they still missed few details—including the two pints of rotgut in his lap.

  “You come to eat our grass,” the chief said.

  “There is plenty of grass now,” Ed said, indicating the new crop of blades sweeping in the wind.

  “When buffalo return we will need more.”

  “They won’t come back this year,” Ed said and put the rest of them to whispering.

  The chief reared back and frowned. “How you know that?”

  The others quickly backed his question and leaned forward to listen to his words.

  “The Missouri is flooding.” He indicated with his head to the north where he expected they used to come from. “They can’t get across it, so they will stay up north this summer.”

  There was a moment of reflection for the men to talk in their own tongue about what he’d said, until at last the chief asked, “Where is this Miss—our—ie?”

  “Four moons’ hard ride.” Ed pointed north. “Many large tribes live in the land between here and there.”

  “Need much money for you to cross our land.”

  “How much?”

  “Maybe thousand gold dollars.”

  Ed shook his head. Impossible. Perhaps it was time to smoke a peace pipe or do something to stall. He needed time. Time for that boy to ride back with his prize trading items. If he let them start on his whiskey they might sober up before Jocko got there with the rest.

  “We are friends.” Ed pointed to his own chest and then to the chief’s. “We should smoke to that.”

  “Smoke pipe?” The chief pushed his gray-black braid back and scratched his ear like he was unsure of what he wanted to do next.

  “Yes. Smoke peace pipe.”

  Looking satisfied, the chief grinned and told the next guy what to do. He rose, wrapped his cheap blanket around himself, and went to the horses. Indian tobacco, or whatever they smoked, was always strong, so Ed steeled himself for the harshness ahead.

  “We smoke pipe, then we drink whiskey like we big friends, huh?” the chief asked.

  “Sure. We can work this out.”

  “What we have to work at? I can send for squaws.” He smiled as if he had an idea. “You want squaw?”

  Ed shook his head. No way did he need a squaw. Did he need lice or crabs? No.

  “Squaw keep you warm at night.” The chief looked hard at Ed and elbowed the man on his right. His words to him must have been: “Won’t she?” The other nodded in agreement.

  “No, thanks.”

  An Indian returned with a pipe and pouch. He took his place and the chief held the pipe up to show Ed. “Great pipe.”

  “Great pipe,” he agreed.

  Chief opened the pouch and used his thumb to pack the bowl with the shredded tobacco.

  “Secret tobacco?”

  The chief nodded and finished. He put the beaded purse down and found a match. He struck it and tried to light the tobacco, puffing in and out. The match went out. Ed rose up and gave him more matches. Leather Face started again, and soon smoke came in little puffs from his wrinkled, dark lips. Using the sides of his hand to slice the universe, he said some prayer and then handed it to his right. Scar Face looked very seriously at the pipe in his hand with its leather strips strung with multicolored beads. He looked very harshly at the job ahead and puffed, blowing out some small bubbles of smoke, and then passing it on until it became Ed’s turn.

  The last buck’s spittle was trailing off in a small wisp, but Ed never hesitated and took it to his mouth. The hot bitterness flooded his mouth and bit his tongue like hot peppers. He issued some smoke from around the stem under the close scrutiny of the others, then, as casually as he could manage, passed it on. Suppressing his cough was bad enough. Maybe they used dry horse shit for flavor—it tasted bad, anyway.

  The pipe came back to the chief, who puffed on it and passed it on again. The whole thing took some time, until at last the bowl was half full of white ash. The chief rose and used his thumb to press a spot of ash on each man’s forehead. After that, he said a prayer and sent the rest of the pipe’s ashes on the wind.

  “Now we are at peace,” he said, seated again on the blanket. “How will our new friend pay us the money for our grass?”

  “We must talk more.”

  “You got whiskey?” The chief indicated the pints.

  “Yes. How far does your land go north?” Ed stalled for more time. That boy better be hurrying—half-drunk Indians could be mean, tough, and demanding. Drunk ones were a pushover.

  “Where the river flows to the sun.”

  “Flows to the sun, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many wives do you have?”

  Leather Face laughed and stuck out his chest under the bone vest. “Four.”

  “Four?” Ed acted impressed. “What do you do with so many wives?”

  “Make babies.”

  In a chain reaction, they all laughed at the chief’s frank reply.

  “You have squaw?”

  Ed shook his head.

  Leather Face frowned at him. “Who is woman with cattle?”

  “My boss.”

  They all laughed at the translation. The chief made a face like he understood his problem. “All women are bossy. You must beat their ass sometimes to make them stop.”

  Ed leaned back and dug his jackknife out of his pants pocket. The buck next to him had to examine the knife, so he showed him both blades. A thin-faced one about his age looked it all over and smiled as he opened and closed it, as if he’d never seen the likes of one. At last he nodded in approval, gave it back, and Ed cut the seal on the first pint.

  He closed his knife and held the bottle up so the sun shone through the glass and the brown liquor. “O great maker of whiskey, deliver me more and be quick about it.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw the roan lift his head and look north. The Indian ponies did too. Someone or something was coming. It better be his man. He pulled the cork, put the rim to his lips, turned the bottle up, and used his tongue to keep most of it in the pint. Here goes the deal.

  Each one around the circle had a swallow apiece. They were well behaved and did not try to drink it all at their turn. The chief wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good whis-key.”

  “Two bottles of whiskey and two wa-hoos.” There were two limpers in the drag they’d have to eat before too much longer.

  The chief shook his head and the last Indian on his left finished the rest of the pint. Hurry. Ed sighed and considered the last pint in his lap. Better stall a little longer and hope. “I am a poor man with little money. I can pay two wa-hoos and two bottles of whiskey for passage, and you can ask the next ones for money.”

  “They have much money?” The chief’s look lightened at the notion.
r />   “Yes. His name is Crabtree. He is very rich.”

  “Crat—bee?”

  “No.” Ed waved that away, delighted with his latest idea. “Crab—tree. Very rich man.”

  One stood up, looked north, and said, “You boss comes.” The rest laughed.

  Ed blinked, then he smiled. She was delivering it herself. He cut the seal and popped the cork on the last pint, handing it to the next buck, then he rose, brushed off the seat of his pants, and went to meet her.

  “How’re negotiations going with them?” she whispered, cutting worried looks at the seated Indians.

  “Going fine. Couple bottles of whiskey and a few limpers and we’ll be on our way.” He went to her saddlebags and undid the one on his side. The bottles retrieved, he took the second one from her, chuckling.

  “What’s so funny?” She frowned at him.

  “They think you’re my squaw.”

  “So? Is that so funny?”

  He stopped, taken aback, and then shook his head. “Only out of context.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means ‘lean over so I can kiss you for this whiskey.’ ”

  She looked uncertainly at the ring of Indians passing around the pint and talking in their group. “Why not?”

  Bent over the pommel of the saddle, she leaned over and pursed her lips. Ed, with his arms full of bottles, kissed her and winked as the Indians all hooted.

  Red-faced at their hollering, she rose in the saddle and turned Star aside. “I hope that helped.”

  “Don’t know if it did a damn thing for them. It sure gave me the strength to go back and deal with them.”

  She shook her head and he could see her shoulders quaking from chuckling at his words as she rode off down the hillside. With a final head shake and a hand wave she left him.

  He went back to the ring, nodded, and sat down.

  “Your boss, go back, fix food?” the chief asked with a smirk.

  “Yes. How is the whiskey?”

  “Goddamn good!”

  The next round of the big bottle and two of the bucks got up and did a war dance. Making big steps, they danced around chanting and the rest began to join them, clapping and singing. “Hey-yo. Hey-yo, hey-yo . . .”

  The chief and his war council were soused and they soon pulled Ed up to join them. He tossed his hat aside and went to pounding his boot heels in the ground, following his brothers around as they danced and screamed at the sun and at hawks. Damn, they acted crazy drunk. He stopped, closed his eyes, and stood with his chin up, sucking in air he needed to fill his aching lungs.

  Two Indians were lying on the ground moaning. One was trying to get on his paint pony and it kept circling away from him. The chief had found the two full bottles and held them in Ed’s face.

  “Send squaws in the morning—get two wa-hoos— you goddamn good man—call you Bossy Woman’s Man.”

  Ed nodded, looking the drunk Indian in the face. “Bossy Woman’s Man.” He couldn’t wait to tell her.

  “Trap—tree coming?” The chief waved the right-hand bottle to the south.

  “Crab—tree’s coming,” Ed reminded him.

  “Him rich sumbitch, huh?”

  “Yes. See you.”

  “See you Bossy Woman’s Man.” The chief waved a bottle after him.

  His hat on again, Ed checked the cinch and swung into the saddle. Then, using his hand over his mouth, he rode the roan off the hill yowling like a banshee to the cheers of his Injun friends.

  Bossy Woman’s Man. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

  Chapter 27

  He heard first the hissing of the lodge poles in the grass. Armed with pans, axes, and butcher knives over a dozen women and many small children arrived at the cow camp before sunup. In the dancing fire’s red light Ed could see they were dressed in an assortment of ragged clothes and castaway army uniforms, as well as tattered blankets.

  A tall woman stepped forward, shoulders back, her hair in tight braids. She looked like the boss. “Where is the Bossy Woman’s Man?”

  The crew snickered when Ed stepped forward and nodded to her.

  “Where are these cows?”

  “At daylight they will rope them and drag them from the herd for you.”

  “Good. We wait.”

  “Caudle, you got a bunch of biscuits?” Ed asked over his shoulder.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Issue one to each of them.”

  “What’ll them boys eat for snacks today?”

  “Cook some more. We’ll take time.”

  “Aw—” Caudle started to complain.

  “Feed them,” Unita said, and walked out to join him.

  “You, Bossy Woman,” the Indian leader said to her. “I am Red Water.” The crew’s low snicker at her words made the line of Indian women and children laugh too. That and Jocko with a big plate of biscuits, who started handing them out to eager brown hands. As he went down the line issuing them, his efforts brought impressed “oohs” from them, big and small.

  “How nice to meet you, Red Water. We will have some bread for all of you,” Unita said. “Come, we will have some coffee and talk about your business.”

  The woman hesitated and looked at two others near her.

  “Them too,” Unita said, and waved them toward her camp.

  Ed would never forget a small, dark-haired girl in the lineup—half naked in the cool predawn, with her cheeks full of bread like a gopher and tears big as acorns flowing down her brown cheeks. He headed back for the rest of his breakfast.

  Grumbling like a sore-toed bear, Caudle was greasing up both of his big Dutch ovens. On the sideboard was a pile of dough.

  “Making snacks?” Ed asked, picking up his plate.

  “You and your ideas—no, that ain’t near enough for them starving kids. I’ll make them hands some in the next batch.”

  It was late when they moved out. Ed stopped and watched how hard the women worked at butchering the two steers, saving it all to load on the travois and pack saddles. Steers on the move again, Caudle packed up and headed north with the horse herd, and Blondie swinging a blanket over his head and charging around them on his paint pony.

  “Those horses won’t ever be the same, will they?” Unita asked, riding beside Ed.

  “Someday he’ll tell me where he got that Thorough-bred mare. The more I see her out in front, the more I wonder about her source.”

  “Oh, you warned me he was more Comanche than white since that day you decided to take him back with us.”

  “I’ve never been sure why either.”

  “No, you knew him then. He’s not a person with much to share.” She looked ahead.

  “I ain’t telling you this to shock you. All he recalls about his mother is three bucks making him watch them as a small boy, while they took turns raping her. That was his only memory of a woman he thought was his mother.”

  “Oh, Ed, that’s sad as anything I’ve ever heard.”

  He nodded to that. Maybe the little crying girl he’d seen earlier was another.

  “What’re you going to do for whiskey?” she asked.

  “Try and forget it. I need to get going. Caudle says we can make a camp on some creek ahead. I better check out the water there.”

  “I may ride along.”

  “Fine, but we better get going.”

  They short loped their ponies a long ways, then trotted them, crossing lots of grassland and small streams. Ed was pleased that they’d reached midway across the Indian Territory. The hard-bottom crossings of the streams signaled to him that they were halfway to the Arkansas River, and it wasn’t far to Newton from there. They passed Caudle and Jocko riding on the seat of the chuck wagon between the flags. They waved as they rode on. Ed’s destination was a large flat where he hoped to find grass and water for the steers, enough to hold up a few days and fill out the steers some. They needed to make fewer miles from there on, and to put more meat on the product. The new grass mixed with the old would do th
at from there to their destination.

  “What if another herd runs over us?” she asked after he explained his plans.

  “Then you shoot the dumb headman of the outfit. That’s too big a mistake to take as likely, but it happens.”

  “Ever happen to you?”

  “Once. We were five days sorting them, and I got a check for thirty head we didn’t get out of their bunch.”

  “Well, they paid you anyway.”

  He looked over at her and laughed. “Yeah, at fifteen bucks a head less than I sold my entire herd for.”

  “Oh.”

  Near midafternoon they found the open country he had hoped for, and the grass looked good. Dismounted, he was chewing on a stem when a rider appeared, and he frowned at Unita as a warning.

  “This is a land of outlaws. Don’t forget it.”

  “I understand,” she said, standing beside him slapping her chaps with her reins.

  “I know him,” he said, recognizing the cowboy in the distance.

  “Who is he?”

  “A drover who once worked for me. He’s all right.”

  “Why, Ed Wright, you’ve got a herd this far north already?” The cowboy drew in his reins, sat his Texas pony down, then took off his hat quick like for Unita. “Nice to see you too, ma’am.”

  She acknowledged him with smile and a nod.

  “Unita Nance, meet Freddie Lynn Castro.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “Aw, shucks, I thought she might be wearing your brand by now.”

  “No.” Ed shook his head. “What’re you doing up here?”

  “Spend the whole da—dang winter up here for John Blocker, ah, looking after his herd that he never got sold last fall. And I won’t do that again for the good Lord.”

  “He get ’em sold?”

  “Sure, even before they finished the shipping pens at Newton.”

  “Good, they have the pens done.”

  Freddie Lynn shook his head “Almost, but the guy who bought the herd has his own help, so I’m headed back.”

  “I’m looking for two brothers named Brady.”

  “I’ve heard of them, but never saw or run onto them up there. Why?”

  “They killed Dave Ivy last year.”