“I need the two of you to drive your wagons to the fort. I aim to get those Winchesters and some ammunition, so we can cut ourselves loose from Goldstein. Whatever credit we have left—and I doubt there’ll be much—we can take in extra grub, if nothing else.”
Goldstein seemed to know it was time to negotiate for the Winchesters, and he greeted Dan with a total lack of enthusiasm.
“I’m not sure you’re going to have that much credit, once all of your animals have been shod,” Goldstein said.
“You know how many horses and mules we’re having shod,” Dan said, “and you’ve kept a running tally on everything else we’ve bought. Figure it out, and let’s be done with this. I want twenty-four Winchesters, and a thousand rounds of ammunition for each of them.”
“That’s twelve hundred dollars,” Goldstein said. “The Winchesters are forty dollars apiece, and the shells are ten dollars a thousand rounds.”
“Then tally up what we’ve spent so far,” Dan said.
Goldstein opened a ledger, and from the subtotals, Dan could see that the storekeeper already knew how much credit remained. However, he wrote a few figures and went through the motions of a tally.
“You have used $1,575 of your credit,” Goldstein said, “leaving $1,275.”
“Accordin’ to my figures,” Dan said, “there’s a little more than enough for twelve hundred dollars’ worth of Winchesters and ammunition. I have my wagons ready.”
“Very well,” Goldstein sighed. “What about the remaining seventy-five dollars?”
“I’ll take seventy-five dollars’ worth of dried apples,” Dan said.
Half the rifles and ammunition went on Bowdre’s wagon and the other half on Silas’s wagon.
“I reckon that took the rest of our credit,” Silas said.
“Not quite,” Dan said. “Here it comes now.”
Goldstein brought out one gunny sack and went back for the second one. He left it on the dock, and without a word returned to the store.
“Dried apples,” Dan said with a grin. “Seventy-five dollars’ worth.”
The trail north. Friday, October 28, 1870.
“Move ‘em out,” Dan shouted.
The last of the horses had been shod the day before. Silas had already led out with the wagons, the horse remuda following. It had taken a while to gather the longhorns, for the graze near the river had become scarce and the herd had scattered. Now they were reluctant to leave the good water and good grass, keeping the swing and flank riders on the run. Drag riders kept the herd bunched, and slowly but surely the long column strung out to the north, following the Brazos River. Dan rode ahead, catching up to Silas in the lead wagon.
“We got maybe a day’s drive along the Brazos, Silas. From what Allison told me, we’ll be crossing the Brazos twice. Once maybe fifteen miles north of Fort Griffin, with a second crossing about fifty miles north of the first.”
“Nothin’ to worry about,” Silas said, “now that we got them wagons watertight. ‘Course if there’s rain enough, them rivers could overrun their banks, makin’ it hard on us.”
“I’m more afraid of snow than rain,” Dan said. “It seldom gets that cold in South Texas, but it does on the Kansas plains.”
Each of the men on the drive now carried a seven-teen-shot Winchester in his saddle boot and a supply of cartridges in his saddlebag. Silas carried the rest of the ammunition and the three extra Winchesters in his wagon. At no time during their stay at Fort Griffin had Dan received any word from Chato, and when he spoke to Palo Elfego about it, the Mexican only shrugged. The outfit took their meals around a common fire, and Dan tried to end each day’s drive so they could eat before dark. After sundown the wind—usually from the north or northwest—became cold, and families took refuge behind their canvas shelters. The exceptions, of course, were the young horse wranglers, who took pride in their constant guardianship of the horse remuda. Dan often came off his watch to find Adeline and Lenore awake, waiting for him. The cold and the canvas shelter afforded them some privacy, and Dan had come to enjoy the late night talks.
“I wish Clay Allison had gone on to Dodge City with us,” Lenore said. “I wonder what became of him?”
“I’d say he finished his business at Fort Griffin and moved on,” Dan replied. “He has a ranch somewhere in New Mexico Territory. He was a mite old for you, anyway.”
Embarrassed, the girl kicked Dan in the ribs, and Adeline laughed.
The crossing of the Brazos to the north of Fort Griffin was without incident, but less than a dozen miles beyond, they reached what seemed to be a tributary.
“Looks like a west fork of the river we just crossed,” Silas said. “Do we cross and go on, or make camp here?”
“We’ll bed down the herd and stay here,” Dan said. “I wonder why we got no word from Chato about this?”
Palo Elfego brought word from Chato that night, but it concerned water for the next night’s camp.
For all the days Dan Ember and his outfit remained at Fort Griffin, Santos Miguel Montoya and his Mejicanos were camped a few miles to the south. South of their camp, Burton Ledoux, Black Bill and Loe Hager-man sat hunched over a small fire drinking bad coffee from a blackened pot. For the moment they were silent, Hagerman and Black Bill apparently tired of cursing one another, and Ledoux weary of shouting at them. But all hell broke loose before Ledoux caught on. The coffee pot sat precariously over the fire on a triangle of stones, and when Hagerman reached for it to hot up his coffee, Black Bill kicked the pot over. The coffee sloshed out, burning Hagerman’s hand.
“You don’ like that, eh?” Black Bill said with a malicious grin. He was on his feet when Hagerman rolled away from the fire and went for his gun. The whip in the Cajun’s hand moved like a live thing, wrapping itself around Hagerman’s throat like a noose. Hagerman’s Colt roared, the slug thudding into the ground at Black Bill’s feet. Black Bill suddenly found himself at the business end of Ledoux’s cocked Colt.
“Get that damn whip loose,” Ledoux snarled, “or I’ll kill you.”
“No,” Black Bill said sullenly. Hagerman was reaching for the Colt he had dropped.
“Leave the gun where it is, Hagerman,” said Ledoux.
Hagerman paused, hating them both. Black Bill—deliberately slow—unwound the deadly whip. When he again had the whip coiled about his arm, he stood there with his right thumb hooked in his pistol belt, just above the butt of his Colt.
“Get up,” Ledoux said. He barely nodded to Hagerman, keeping his eyes on Black Bill.
Hagerman retrieved his Colt and got to his feet, but did not holster the weapon. His eyes were on Black Bill.
“Holster the damn pistol,” Ledoux roared. Even when Hagerman complied, Ledoux kept them covered, and when he spoke it was with such fury that Black Bill’s customary evil grin vanished. “Now, by God,” Ledoux said, “I’ll shoot the next man that pulls a gun. And you” —he glared at Black Bill—”don’t you ever unleash that whip again without me sayin’ so.”
Ledoux’s attention was drawn away from his troublesome companions by the approach of Santos Miguel Montoya. If Montoya was surprised to find Ledoux covering Hagerman and Black Bill with a drawn Colt, he didn’t show it.
“The Tejanos and their cows have left the fort, Sehor Ledoux,” Montoya said. “We will be riding west of the fort in pursuit of them.”
Montoya turned and walked away and Ledoux again focused his attention on Hagerman and Black Bill. “Saddle your horses. We’re riding out.”
Ledoux waited until Hagerman and Black Bill had reached their horses before he began saddling his own. Black Bill caught Hagerman’s eye and winked,
“I think he don’ kill nobody,” the Cajun said. “When the time come, it be jus’ you an’ me, eh?”
Black Bill laughed, an evil sound that chilled Hagerman’s blood. The pair rode out, Ledoux following.
The Brazos River. Thursday, November 3, 1870.
The outfit bedded down the herd and the horse re
muda just before sunset, preparing for yet another crossing of the Brazos the following morning. Supper was almost ready when Denny DeVoe came riding in from where the horse remuda had been grazing.
“Five riders comin’ downriver,” Denny shouted. “They ain’t Injuns.”
Dan and the rest of the men got to their feet, having been hunkered down enjoying first cups of hot coffee. The five riders came on, and as they drew nearer, Dan relaxed. They had ridden in from the east, and the setting sun winked off the emblems pinned to the lapels of their coats. They all wore silver stars in a circle, the badge of the Texas Rangers. They reined up, awaiting permission to advance or dismount.
“Step down, gents,” Dan said. “The coffee’s ready now, and supper’s on the way.”
“We’re obliged,” the lead rider said. “I’m McCul-lough, and the hombres behind me are Bell, Wallace, McKenzie, and McLean. The Comanches have been looting and killing along the Red, and by the time we picked up their trail, they had retreated into Indian Territory.”
The five Rangers dismounted and approached the fire, for the sun was down and the wind was cold. Adeline DeVoe brought them tin cups, and they headed gratefully for one of the huge coffeepots the Texans had acquired at Fort Griffin.
“There’s sugar and condensed milk there on the wagon tailgate,” Adeline said.
“This is like manna from heaven,” McCullough said. “We’ve had nothing but jerked beef and water for two weeks. Is that sourdough biscuits I smell?”
“It is,” Dan said, “and there’s ham, beans, and dried apple pie to go with them.”
“I always hoped when I died I’d go to heaven,” one of the Rangers said, “and it looks like I made it.”
Fanny Bowdre, Amy Wilder, Adeline DeVoe, and the rest of the women in the outfit had devised an orderly means of turning out a meal in record time without it being overly hard on anybody. A dozen three-legged iron spiders straddled beds of coals over which hung two-gallon coffee pots. It was Lenore Devoe’s turn to tend the coffee pots, putting on more water to boil as a pot was emptied. Fanny Bowdre had three women helping her tend the many Dutch ovens in which sourdough biscuits were baking. The ovens—huge iron pots with lids—sat on beds of coals, while more coals were piled on top. Every family in the outfit had brought one, distributing them among the wagons for transporting. Amy Wilder was responsible for half a dozen enormous iron pots of beans, going from one pot to another, stirring them. Hattie Kuykendall had two women helping her turn the slabs of ham that sizzled in large iron skillets. Adeline DeVoe was preparing dried apple pies for the skillets when enough ham had been fried. Four large pots of dried apples had been boiled to perfection. A wagon tailgate had been let down, providing a table for Adeline’s biscuit board. She prepared the pies rapidly. Rolling out a thin circle of dough as large as a plate, she filled half the circle with the cooked fruit, folded the rest of the dough over into a half-moon, and then crimped the rounded edges together with a fork. Each pie would then be fried in ham grease until the dough was crisp.
“Tarnation,” one of the Rangers said, “I never seen so much cooking goin’ on all at once or so spread out. Not even in the army.”
“All the cook fires are laid out in a circle,” Dan said, “and with so many things going at once, it takes a big circle. The wagon they’re working from is left in the middle of the circle. Easier for everybody to get the supplies as they need ‘em, and the wagon tailgate supports a biscuit board for cuttin’ biscuits and rolling out dough for dried apple pies.”
The meal that followed was an occasion to be remembered, especially by the half-starved Rangers. The five Rangers gratefully accepted an invitation to stay the night, and over many extra cups of coffee, the talk turned to the Indian problem.
“We ran into Quanah Parker and his Comanches south of Fort Griffin,” Dan said. “They took twenty cows and let us go.”
“My God,” McCullough said, “you don’t know how fortunate you are. It’s unlike the Comanches. It’s more their style to murder you, take your scalp and ride on.
They especially like to steal white women. Quanah’s mother was white, you know. She was taken as a child and later became the wife of a Comanche chief, Peta Nocona. In December 1860, Rangers whipped a party of Comanches not too far from here. Cynthia Ann Parker was taken from them and returned to her family.”*
“I’ve heard the story,” Dan said. “What became of her?”
“After many years with the Comanches,” McCul-lough said, “I fear she was more Indian than white. Soon after she was returned to her family, her child died, and she lived only a few months after that.”
“You did her no favors, then,” Dan said.
“I fear we did not,” McCullough replied, “but we did what we thought was right. A man can do no more than that.”
“When we cross the river in the morning,” Dan said, “we will have crossed the Brazos three times since leaving Fort Griffin. What are our other crossings before we reach the Red?”
“Your next river will be the Wichita,” McCullough said. “There’s a north and south fork, and you’ll be crossing them both. When you leave here, you’ll be maybe twelve miles from the south fork, and once you’ve crossed it, about eighteen miles from the north fork. From there you’ll be twenty miles or so from the Pease River. There’s a confluence with the Red, but you won’t be far enough to the east. You’ll have to cross them both. Once you’ve crossed the Pease, depending on where you cross, you’ll not be more than another twenty miles from the Red. After that, it’ll be Indian Territory.”
“I know,” Dan said. “We’re looking forward to that. What can you tell us about it?”
“Nothing good,” McCullough replied. “Except for an occasional foray along the Red, the Comanches generally confine their hell-raising to North, East, and West Texas. North of the Red, in Indian Territory, the Kiowas take up the slack. They’re just about as compassionate as the Comanches. Another danger, once you’ve crossed the Red, is renegades. They were run out of Kansas and Missouri after the war, and most of them are holed up somewhere in Indian Territory. They masquerade as embittered southerners in rebellion, but mostly they’re bands of thieves and killers who have taken advantage of the recent war. They have attacked some of the drives along the Chisholm Trail, murdering the cowboys and selling the cows to various forts.”
“Well, by God, as a Texan, that burns my behind,” Dan said. “Accordin’ to these damn reconstruction laws, Union forts aren’t allowed to buy cattle from Texans, but they can and will buy from thieving varmints who murder the owners and steal the herds.”
“Obviously there are some inequities within this reconstruction law,” McCullough said dryly, “but there are ways around them. If these renegades swoop down on you, empty their saddles and leave them for buzzard bait. This is still the frontier. If you have enough guns, and the guts to use them, the law is on your side.”
“That’s kind of the way we feel about it,” Dan said, “but it’s always good to hear it from men who have been through the fire.”
After a bountiful breakfast and many thanks, the Rangers rode out the next morning. By now the outfit had their river crossing procedure down pat, and in less than an hour all seven wagons had been taken safely across the Brazos.
“My God,” Silas said, “I never knowed there was so many rivers in Texas.”
“It ain’t there’s so many,” Kirby Wilkerson said, “it’s how they twist and turn. You keep crossin’ the same one. If the Brazos was strung out straight, it’d reach from one ocean to the other.”*
“Hell, it ain’t that long,” Wolf Bowdre said. “It just seems that way, havin’ to cross it so many times. From what I hear, the Red’s the varmint that’s likely to give us a ride we won’t forget. If there’s trouble ahead, that’s where I figure we’re most likely to get throwed and stomped.”
There was trouble ahead, but within hours, not days or weeks. The dawn had broken under cloudy skies, the sun but a dim glow tha
t soon was lost altogether. Riding into a cold north wind, the riders were thankful for their coats and gloves. The temperature began to fall, and an hour or two past midday tiny particles of ice stung their faces and rattled off the brims of their hats. Cattle hated trailing into a storm, and many of them broke away, seeking to take the back trail. Dan rode on ahead and caught up to the first wagon.
“Silas, we’re in for it. I’m riding ahead looking for some shelter. It’s already near impossible, driving the longhorns into the wind, and it’s gettin’ almighty cold.”
“Snow’s comin’,” Silas said. “Won’t be more’n another hour or two.”
Dan rode ahead, seeking refuge from the north wind and the snow that was almost sure to come. And it did come, mixing with the sleet, much sooner than Silas had predicted. According to what McCullough had told them, their next river would be the south fork of the Wichita, at least twelve miles. Dan estimated they had traveled maybe half that distance, and with the temperature dropping by the minute, they couldn’t possibly reach the river. Even if the snow held off—and that
seemed unlikely—it would be virtually impossible to keep the herd moving headlong into a fiercer, colder wind. Dan rode on. The range was becoming hilly, with eroded brakes and head-high mesquite thickets. There was an occasional oak, its dead leaves long since stripped away by the prairie wind, its naked limbs stark against a leaden sky. But the land was becoming rougher, with draws and head-high escarpments. Finally Dan reached a fast-running creek, and following it west, found where it emerged from a canyon. Narrow at the mouth, the canyon grew wider as he rode deeper into it. Soon the north rim was high enough to provide relief from the wind, and ahead, along the creek, was the welcome green of willows. There was graze too. How much would depend upon the length of the canyon, and what there was would have to suffice for the duration of the storm. Dan watered his horse at the creek and rode back to meet the herd. When he rode out of the canyon and was again at the mercy of the pounding wind, it seemed colder than ever. The prairie was already white with snow, and his horse stumbled over stones that were difficult to see. It seemed like hours before he finally met the first wagon.
The Dodge City Trail Page 17
