The Independence Trail

by Lyle Brandt

  Mossman couldn’t make sense of the evidence, such as it was. Right now he only knew that everyone who served him on the drive—and maybe all that he’d been working toward for years on end—was in potential danger.

  And there wasn’t a damned thing that he could do about it.

  Longwood, Kansas

  “They’re getting close,” Murray Glatman advised the other four men gathered in his office at the Badger’s Tail Saloon.

  He didn’t have to tell them who was getting close. Between them, they had thought of little else since Jed Findlay had warned them of the cattle drive’s approach and plans were hatched to seize the golden opportunity. Watching their faces now, Glatman saw that three out of the four appeared committed to proceeding with their scheme.

  The odd man out was the aged justice of the peace, Odell Butler.

  “We’ve got the men in place?” Mayor Harding asked.

  “All set to go,” Marshal Whitesell replied. “As soon as Findlay gives the signal, they’ll move in.”

  “Can you remind us what that signal is?” asked lawyer Tilman Crull.

  “Sorry, but no,” said Whitesell. “Jed still wasn’t sure when he hooked up with them, and we’ve had no chance to communicate since then.”

  “Something dramatic, I’d assume,” the mayor said.

  Glatman swallowed a desire to tell them what he thought about assumptions, but said, “Jed knows his business. We can trust him to be obvious without putting himself in too much danger.”

  “Can we, though?” Judge Butler asked the room at large. “Trust him, I mean?”

  Glatman answered with a question of his own. “Why not, Your Honor?”

  “Why not?” Butler’s cheeks were coloring beneath his normal pallid white. “First off, we don’t know him from Adam, Murray. You’re the one who recommended him and sang his praises till we cut him in for ten percent. Nobody else here in this room today can vouch for him at all.”

  “I see,” Glatman replied. “So, it’s not Jed you’re doubting now, but me. Is that it?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Nobody’s saying that, Murray,” Harding pitched in.

  “They’re not?” Glatman showed them his reptile’s grin. “It sounds to me like one of you just did exactly that.”

  “I’m sure that Odell didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t speak for me, Cyrus,” their justice of the peace cut in. “Murray’s not wrong. None of us ever heard of Findlay until Murray brought him in, singing his praises to high heaven. Now we hear that Bert’s men still don’t know how Findlay plans to signal them for their attack, their raid, whatever you call it.”

  Glatman refreshed his whiskey glass but offered no more to his guests. He sipped it thoughtfully, then said, “You’re right, Odell. I recommended him. I stand by that, and you-all went along with it. I didn’t hear you bitch about it earlier. So, what’s the problem now, Your Honor?”

  Making Butler’s title sound more like a sneer.

  “I only think we should be cautious, Murray. And I’ve come to think your man is overpriced.”

  “Again, you-all signed off on what he should receive.”

  “I only meant—”

  But Glatman interrupted Butler. Said, “If you want out of this, Odell, you need to say so, and I mean right now. Mayor Harding can appoint another JP in your place, and you can leave. You’ve got nothing to keep you here. No family, except that daughter and grandson I’ve heard you talk about. They still live in St. Louis, don’t they? I recall it as Ward Six, on Compton Street.”

  “Murray—”

  “I see no reason why you couldn’t go and stay with them awhile. See how they’re getting on.”

  “I fear that you’ve misunderstood me,” Butler said, not quite whining.

  Glatman allowed himself a shrug. “That’s possible, I guess.”

  “I have no wish and no plan to abandon our agreement.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s a load off all our minds, I’m sure, Odell.” Glatman quaffed off his whiskey, smacked his lips, and said, “Now, if there’s nothing else, we all have work to do.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Supper in camp that night was quiet, talk subdued among the Bar X drovers. None of them had slept well after finding Nehemiah Wolford’s corpse, and all seemed anxious to turn in once they had finished eating, even if it meant keeping their guns closer than normal once they’d bedded down.

  As for the hands on first night watch—Steinmeier, Underwood, and Guenther—they were dragging as they dropped their empty plates and coffee cups at the chuck wagon, taking guns and saddles off to start their shift. They looked as if it were a toss-up as to whether raw fatigue or a knife-wielding lunatic would catch up to them first.

  Catlin was off tonight, as luck would have it, and certain that he’d spend the hours with his Colt Navy revolver and his Henry rifle close at hand. As to whether he’d sleep or not, despite how tired he was . . . well, he would have to wait and see.

  One thing they had no shortage of in camp tonight was nerves strung tightly as piano wire, each cowboy wondering if he would wake up in the morning or be wrapped in tarp and slated for an early grave.

  If anyone had asked Catlin just then whether he would prefer a cowboy’s life over that of a bounty hunter, he could not have answered honestly.

  At least in his former profession there’d been few nights when he’d feared to close his eye.

  * * *

  * * *

  Seen anything?” Clyde Byers asked.

  “You think we’d still be sitting here?” Vern Killian replied.

  “Guess not.”

  Dumb shit, Killian thought, but didn’t speak the words aloud. He’d been appointed leader of the team tonight, with vague instructions to await a signal from their inside man and act accordingly. Bert Whitesell hadn’t told him what that signal might consist of—gunshots, hollering, somebody beating on a cook’s triangle, shouting, “Come and get it!”—but there’d been nothing so far, and the other members of his raiding party were on edge.

  That said, they were as primed and ready as a group of mismatched ne’er-do-wells could ever be, bracing themselves to steal a herd of cattle—or a goodly number of them, anyway—from armed men who outnumbered them by nearly two to one.

  Against that, Killian and his eight men were well armed, each of them a killer in his own right, with deputy marshal’s badges tucked away for use at need. Killian still wasn’t sure how that would work. It was a “last resort” according to Marshal Whitesell—but how would flashing badges help after they tried to raid the herd? Would anybody on the other side even take time to look at them or listen to the lie before they blew the phony deputies to hell and gone?

  “So, how’s this guy supposed to call us in?” Doc Quigley asked. Killian didn’t know how Quigley got his nickname, but he’d never been a doctor, clearly never even went to school trying to be one.

  “All of you stop asking me to tell the future,” Killian commanded. “I was told we couldn’t miss the signal, and that’s all I know, damn it!”

  Carl Ragsdale griped, “If he waits any longer, this outfit will be in Longwood or beyond it.”

  Killian ignored him. Told the group at large, “If any of you haven’t checked your guns by now, you’d best get to it.”

  “How many times we gotta check ’em?” Tony Goodenough inquired.

  “As often as it takes to keep your ass from getting kilt by carelessness,” Killian said. “Now, all of you shut up and let me think!”

  And what he thought was, Come on, Findlay. What’s the goddamn holdup?

  * * *

  * * *

  Jed Findlay was no telepath and didn’t need to be. He could imagine Marshal Whitesell’s raiders huddled in the darkness, waiting for a sign to make their move, a
nd knew that he was running perilously short on time to call them in.

  The good news: Findlay was excused from riding herd tonight and had decided that there’d never be a better time than now.

  He had considered half a dozen ways of tipping off the Longwood crew, deciding that the easiest—and safest, for himself—would cause a panic in the Bar X camp while drawing the three men on night watch from their rounds.

  And how better to get that done than with the chuck wagon?

  Findlay had looked around inside the wagon when the cook served up breakfast and supper, acting casual about it, and had gained a better view inside while complimenting Piney Rollins on a stew that Jed considered mediocre. He knew where the lamps were kept when Piney doused them for the night and figured he could reach one easily enough by climbing on the wagon’s tailgate, taking care to make a minimum of racket in the process.

  After that . . .

  The trick, he realized, was rising from his bedroll, slipping past the sleeping drovers ranged around the campfire without waking anyone. Jay knew that everyone was edgy since he’d skewered Nehemiah Wolford, and he’d caught a couple of them staring at him, likely whispering behind his back, but no one had accused him yet, and now they’d missed their chance.

  Jay didn’t bother with his blankets as he rose, just left them lying rumpled where they were. He hadn’t taken off his gun belt when he went to bed, so didn’t have to wrestle with that now, and his Winchester nestled in its scabbard as he raised the saddle to his shoulder, not quite tiptoeing around the fire, moving toward the remuda.

  Anxious moments there, while he was saddling his dun and trying not to rouse the wrangler, Jared Olney, stretched out near the horses. Findlay had considered knifing him, but he didn’t want to risk a scuffle that might rouse the camp, surrounding him with eager guns before he signaled out for help from Whitesell’s men.

  Instead of mounting up when he was finished with the saddle, Jay led his mount slowly and cautiously to reach the chuck wagon. Once there, he struck a match to verify the lanterns were in place and lifted one outside. It took a second match to light the wick, and Findlay cursed the tiny scraping sounds its chimney made as he removed it, gaining access to the burner.

  Nearly trembling with excitement, Jed knew that if anything went wrong, it would most likely happen now.

  But nothing did.

  He turned the wick up, got it lit, and stepped back far enough that he could hurl the lamp without a backsplash that would set his clothes on fire. He heard the lamp’s font shatter on impact, then flames were leaping up inside, climbing the wagon’s canvas bonnet in a flash as Findlay mounted up and lashed his animal into an all-out gallop.

  Art Catlin woke to chaos—men running around and shouting, “Fire!”—before he fully realized that he had drifted off to sleep.

  How long? It didn’t matter now. There was a new emergency to occupy his mind.

  Before Catlin was even on his feet, he saw the chuck wagon in flames. Someone was howling from the heart of that inferno, with a voice that sounded vaguely like Tim Berryman’s.

  Art tugged his boots on and retrieved his guns. They wouldn’t help him fight the blaze, but something told him that the drive had bigger problems now than having its supplies go up in smoke.

  As if responding to his silent thought, gunfire rang out along the herd’s perimeter. Jogging around the chuck wagon, shielding his eyes from firelight for a better view, Art saw a line of muzzle flashes in the darkness, drawing closer as a skirmish line of horsemen charged the camp.

  He called a warning out to anybody who might listen, even though the raging fire half blinded them, its roar serving to muffle gunshots at a hundred yards and closing. Seconds later, Art heard Mr. Mossman shouting for his hands to arm themselves and do it now.

  The blazing wagon, its expanding pall of smoke, and crackling gunfire all combined to spook the longhorns, rousing them to panic. On the outskirts of the herd, armed horsemen had begun to circle wide around the herd’s main body, coming at the steers from a southwesterly direction, whipping up a stampede frenzy with their rebel yells and gunfire.

  Facing them on foot was madness.

  Cursing, Catlin broke for the remuda and his stallion at an all-out run.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jolted from sleep by shouts of “Fire!” and someone crying out in pain, it seemed to Sterling Tippit that he’d woken from a nightmare to discover he was trapped in hell on earth. It took a moment for his mind to clear and recognize reality, but even then what he was seeing made no sense.

  The chuck wagon on fire, men beating at the flames with blankets, then discarding them as they caught fire in turn—how was this happening? If Piney Rollins or his teenage helper had done something foolish, Tippit meant to have their hides.

  But, no.

  Beyond the fire that ruined his night vision, Sterling heard gunfire and drew his Colt Dragoon revolver, making ready to respond in kind. If he could only find out who was shooting and determine why . . .

  Another hectic moment passed before he spotted riders circling around the Bar X herd, firing their guns into the air. It didn’t seem as if they’d marked a human target yet, preoccupied with stirring up the longhorns, trying to stampede them.

  Rustlers?

  What else could it be?

  Art Catlin sprinted past him, bound for the remuda if he didn’t veer off course before arriving there. Tippit pursued him, knowing that the best way to oppose armed riders was on horseback, fighting as their equal, rather than a grounded target they could pick off as they pleased.

  He fell in behind Catlin, burdened by his saddle as he ran for his flea-bitten gray.

  * * *

  * * *

  Vern Killian had given up on strategy the moment that his raiders started shooting. It was no good shouting at them to cease fire, since few of them would hear him and they likely wouldn’t follow his instructions anyhow.

  That was the way of any battle, as he’d learned during the War Between the States, serving with the 2nd Arkansas Infantry Regiment. He’d been wounded twice, at Shiloh and again at Perryville, lucky to be alive and make it home with nothing but a slight limp in cold weather to remind him of the hell he’d managed to survive.

  The Golden Rule of combat was “No plan survives the first contact.” And if he’d needed any further proof of that, Killian had it now.

  At least the longhorns were behaving reasonably true to form, half of them or more charging away to the northeast, toward Longwood. Townsmen, mounted and afoot, were waiting for them there, to halt their charge and steer them into holding pens prepared for just that purpose.

  Killian’s riders were meant to guide the herd, but some of them were dueling with the drovers now, distracted from their main task by the exigency of survival in the moment. It would be a minor miracle, he thought, if none of them were killed or captured on the battlefield.

  To think that he had volunteered for this. Killian knew he wasn’t drunk when Whitesell pitched the proposition to him, but he wondered now if he had lost his ever-loving mind.

  One of his raiders, Mason Hedges, galloped past Killian’s red taffy mare on his rabicano gelding, hunched over the saddle horn and calling out, “I’m hit! To hell with this! I’m getting out of here!”

  Killian let him go and wished him luck. The other members of his party were approximately following instructions, whooping at the longhorns, driving them in Longwood’s general direction by the light of a three-quarters moon. Behind them, most on foot, the trail drive’s cowboys were unloading with their firearms, having little luck beyond one of them winging Hedges with a lucky shot.

  “To hell with this is right!” Killian muttered to himself, and spurred his mount to greater speed, ducking his head as if a change in posture would prevent him being cut down from behind.

  He c
ouldn’t say for sure how many cattle they were running with, but it appeared to be somewhere between one third and one half of the herd. Enough to make the trail boss track them, anyhow, and wind up in negotiations with the men in charge of Longwood.

  And if that wasn’t a risky scheme, Killian didn’t know what was.

  “To hell with it!” he said again, his horse blithely ignoring him.

  As long as he got paid for this night’s outing, that was all he cared about.

  Well, that and living to enjoy his newfound wealth.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Thursday, June 5

  We’ve lost Tim Berryman,” Bliss Mossman told the Bar X team. “The burns were just too much for him.”

  Art Catlin noted Piney Rollins, standing near their boss, using a dingy handkerchief to dab his eyes. He wasted no time wondering if smoke had stung his eyes or he’d been moved to tears by losing his apprentice.

  The chuck wagon had burned down to its axles once the shooting started and no drovers could be spared to douse its flames. That meant their food was gone, together with a brace of water barrels and assorted tools. The only upside was survival of the dray horses that pulled the wagon daily, now put out of work.

  Mossman and Sterling Tippit had begun to count the drive’s remaining longhorns at first light, Tippit reporting to the men that roughly half of their two thousand steers were missing since the night’s pell-mell stampede.

  With that in mind, it was a wonder that they’d suffered no more human losses. Berryman turned out to be their sole fatality, trapped when the wagon’s blazing bonnet fell on top of him while he was scrambling to salvage anything he could. Jerome Guenther was the only drover wounded in the gunfight, suffering a shallow graze—more than a rash than anything more serious—across his left thigh when a bullet came too close for comfort.