by Rita Hestand
They crossed the line of Nation Beaver Creek easily enough, and as Hunt scouted out the trail for them, he moved on to Monument Rock, and then on to Stage Station. All went well, even running into Comanche, Osage, and Kiowas. The Kiowa' seemed to be the least friendly, but it could have been because they were at war with the cowboy buffalo hunters who left so many along the prairie for dead without using them, eating them, or caring for their demise. Hunt knew the Indians had a great respect for the buffalo as it not only fed the Indians most of the time, but clothed them, as well. The buffalo was a sacred animal to the Indians.
Each creek was a stalling point with the cattle, but it seemed to get easier now with more of them. They passed Rush Creek and then went on to Little Washita, and from there on to Washita Crossing at Line Creek. Finally, they came to the Canadian River.
The Canadian River was up and Hunt felt it best to rest the herd before trying to cross. The grass was fairly tall and good grazing would help fatten them. He rested the cattle for a couple of days. But there was a tension in the air that was unexplainable, and each man felt it.
The Canadian didn't go down, though, and a storm kicked up as they waited. Lightning like no one had seen before came out of the sky, its lights dancing on the end of the horns then down along the edge of the earth. But this lightning rolled along the gulleys, then streaked the plains like a silver spear. There was little protection from the storms on the prairie. Cowboys were at as much risk as the cattle. Trees were a sure thing of the past. No oaks, no willows, nothing but an occasional cottonwood along a spring. And most of them had been mangled by the severe weather. Willy lost his hat in the last creek bed trying to hurry the cattle across. So when a huge hail began to pelt the ground, Hunt knew they were in trouble.
He sang, but it was to no avail. The hail was so loud it drowned his voice. He instructed Jodi to keep the wagon in site at all times. Jodi didn't balk at this, as she saw the storm was raging and did the best she could to protect the supplies in the wagon. Every man had a slicker and was wearing them, but Willy had no hat. After much consideration for his job and the situation, Hunt insisted Willy join Jodi in the wagon, claiming that Jodi needed help, for he knew Willy would feel concern for the horses. Instead, he put Matt on the remuda temporarily.
The hail was large and there wasn't anything anyone could do to stop it. Jodi even loaned out a few pots to cover some of their heads. The cattle milled, then the winds got up, and they started drifting. Hunt was hoping this wouldn't happen because it took time off the trail. They drifted for hours, the drovers being able to do nothing but stay up with them. When the wind whistled its lonely call, they had no choice. It could, and did, take them miles off the trail. “Stay with them,” he called to his men one by one.
Bone weary and soaking wet, they sat the saddle the entire night, drifting away from the trail for miles. Daylight brought no reprieve as the wind and rain continued.
Hunt was glad the men knew instinctively what to do, but he worried over each and every one of them, and the first thing he did the next morning was run a check on everyone. Several of them had injuries and he sent them to Jodi for treatment. Sparky had a severe burn that she doctored, and told him to rest up for a while.
Worse for wear, but alive, they all checked in, and although some got some sleep before morning, others sat the saddle the entire night and into the next day.
Hunt quickly realized they had gone off the trail about ten or fifteen miles. It would take a couple of days to get back to it. Resigned to finding the trail once more, Hunt struck his course and the men all obeyed his orders.
Josh reported several blood blisters where the hail had came down on him so hard. It was a new experience for him and he was shocked at the damage it had done to him. Willy was just glad he’d had some protection. Without a hat, his head would have been swollen like a watermelon since he was the only man completely bald.
Jodi treated them all gently that night, offering comfort of witch hazel.
She prided herself with stocking the best of medicines for the men. Some were recognized like cod liver oil, camphor, laudanum. Others were a mixture of old remedies her family had handed down to her.
Some of men barely got off their horse before they hit the ground and were sound asleep. Food wasn't as important right now. Sleep was. Jodi did her best to not disturb them. She knew they needed rest.
After the Canadian, they went on through North Fork and Prairie Spring. There were many smaller creeks to cross, but the cattle seemed to become used to the water, and swimming across became easier when it was necessary. There was King Fisher Creek, Red Fork, Turkey Creek, and Hackberry Creek and Shawnee Creek, then on to Salt Fork.
At Pond Creek, Hunt spotted a huge herd of buffalo grazing ever northward. It was like someone had colored the prairie with a dark brown. As far as one could see, there were buffalo. He knew all the drovers wanted to hunt them, it was a sport no cowboy could pass up, so he left two drovers on guard, the ones who managed more rest, and gave the rest of them their wish. They deserved it, Hunt thought with a smile.
He told them, though, to only take what they could eat or use, not to waste.
He hadn't joined them as they had Indians visiting from the reservation.
“Want heap good tobacco,” the Indians cried in broken English.
Hunt nodded. “All right, I'll give you some supplies. Tobacco, food, a couple of beeves, maybe.”
“Want horses,” one cried out.
“No horses.” Hunt shook his head. “We've a ways to go, and we are horse poor.”
The Indians didn't like his answer, but they settled for what Hunt offered. They were determined to stay for dinner, too. Perhaps they wouldn't have settled so easy if Hunt hadn't spoken with firm determination. He knew the one thing he couldn't do around Indians was be indecisive. When he said something, he had to do it. No matter how silly or ridiculous it might be, he had to stand firm. They expected it.
Jodi frowned at all the company Hunt had invited, but she managed to put together quite a large meal and the Indians seemed to enjoy it. They had brought a couple of squaws with them, and they sat with her during the meal. She tried to converse with them, but she didn't understand most of their conversation.
It wasn't long after they finished eating that she tried to engage them in a conversation alone. “Black Cohosh, do you have such? Tansy, rue...anything?”
“No co-hosh.” The squaw shook her head. “Tansy!”
Jodi was desperate now and had to figure some way to show them. Pulling them further from the camp, she made motions of her problems and the squaws seemed to understand. They giggled between themselves. They agreed to return the following night with what she needed.
Hunt found her later that evening sitting on the ground, trying to rest up.
“Who's the father, Jodi?” he asked not bothering to lead up to the subject. He was bone tired and his expression held no room for silly answers.
She clammed up.
“Well, I've only seen you with one man, if you could call him that. Hershel Walker, but you claim you loathe the man. It just doesn't add up, unless he got you pregnant and left you. That might be the case. I could see where you'd be pretty angry about that. But trying to hurt the baby to get at him…” Hunt seemed to watch her expression as he spoke, as though waiting for her to make a slip.
She hadn't told him she was trying to get rid of the baby. He had guessed, or had seen her talking to the Indian squaws. Jodi frowned at his powerful presence. She felt his scrutinizing gaze on her. She knew she should tell him everything. After all, he'd done a great job of getting the herd through and as peaceably as anyone could have done. Still, that didn't automatically entitle him to know about her personal life. Only the fact that they were married entitled him. But her pride kept her from it. Maybe he wouldn't believe her. Maybe he'd think she was just cheap, and no good. Not that it mattered what he thought….but it did, somehow. And admitting that made her rethink him. H
ad she judged him too quickly? Not once had she given him the benefit of the doubt about the war.
“Is that why you hate him?” Hunt continued to probe for answers.
“You're so smart, you figure it out,” she said, and got up and went back to camp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The men were back in no time. It took three of them to drag the buffalo to camp. They were tired, dusty, and happy.
“So, let's hear the story.” Hunt smiled as they settled into camp.
Josh glanced at the other two and smiled. “The land was dark with the buffalo filling it up, but we soon had the herd in a full run. A stampeded herd of buffalo made more noise than thunder. The earth rumbled beneath us. The noise they made was deafening. Thinking they were like cattle, we aimed our pistols at the skull. It was the way to down a longhorn, we all knew, but it seemed to do no good with the buffalo. After repeated tries, we aimed for the large hump on their back, which still did no good. Determined to fell one, Willy and Concho finally tried to rope one. It was a bad mistake, for no sooner had they gotten the rope around one buffalo, then the buffalo jerked Willy off his horse. Me and Concho finally felled him as we aimed under the shoulder.
“The buffalo went down with a thud that shook the ground beneath us. We were all so happy we jumped up and down and did a dance around the carcass.”
“Your first buffalo hunt. Well, you did good, boys.”
Willy and Concho skinned the buffalo and dressed him, giving only the choicest cuts to Jodi to prepare for supper. Jodi watched, fascinated that Willy and Concho were so good at the process. She'd never seen a buffalo skinned, nor eaten its meat.
She decided she would soak it over night in vinegar and cook it in a pit the next night. Buffalo had to be tough meat, it was a tough animal, she reasoned.
It was late when the first shift bedded down. Jodi was very exhausted. She went to sleep sitting up in the wagon.
Hunt came in, the first time since early in the drive. He saw her asleep in the corner, and as he threw his hat down and removed his gun belt, he sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. He wasn't sure why he felt so protective over her. He only knew that she had really had a rough time of it, and he wanted to help her. A woman on a drive, and in a way, how could that be? But it was.
As her body warmed him, he sighed heavily against her and his lips grazed the top of her head. She whimpered in her sleep; he pulled her closer. Just for the night, he'd be her husband, but he still vowed he wouldn't touch her. He smiled as he remembered telling her he liked his women willing. “You have no idea how hard it is to keep my distance, Jodi. But I will, until someday when you can trust me.”
The next day, the Indians returned and wouldn't let them move the cattle by bringing more braves with them. They seemed to be trying to hold them back. Hunt stood firm and pushed on anyway. He needed to get these cattle to market and the Indians didn't seem to see it that way. Since these were Comanche he was dealing with, he knew he had to tread lightly, for they would just as soon stampede the herd as look at them.
The men were nervous and he knew they had their guns ready for trouble. Only Hunt didn't want trouble. He wanted to get the cattle through, and that was all. Besides, he now had another herd to keep an eye on and his job had become much harder. It was that herd he was worried about.
The Indians again brought their squaws with them, and as they sat picking the lice from their hair, Jodi prepared their grand buffalo meal. Although it did impress the drovers and Hunt, it had no effect whatsoever on the Indians. Perhaps they had tasted buffalo many times, Hunt reasoned. Jodi frowned, but served them all with a sardonic smile.
This time, they were more insistent on beef, so Hunt finally relented in sending up several drag strays that he had intended to cut from the herd. The Indians were not picky about the meat and they spent the better part of the evening skinning the cattle right there in camp and cutting up the meat to take with them. They wasted nothing. Some of the squaws ate the meat raw. Jodi gagged as she watched them. They thought nothing of the blood running down their chins.
Jodi was cleaning the dishes when one of the squaws came up to her and handed her a bag. She wasn't sure she understood what to do with it. She tried asking several times, but she didn't understand them. The squaw smiled and went away after she took it.
The Indians disappeared very quickly and the drovers bedded down for the night.
Jodi went inside the wagon and sat there looking at the contents of the small bag that could change her life. What was she supposed to do with the herb? Did she steep it like a tea and drink it? Did she cook it in food? Did they expect her to eat it like that? Why couldn't they have communicated with her enough to tell her or show her how to use it?
She realized with irony that, although they had brought her a possible solution, it did her little good unless she knew how much to take and how to take it. Tears fell down her cheeks and she silently cried for a long time. Was this some kind of strange payback?
Finally, she stashed it under a bedroll and closed her eyes.
Was God himself against her doing this? Didn't he sympathize with her problem? He and he alone knew she'd been raped. Why couldn't he let her get rid of this child?
The questions only brought turmoil. She needed to escape from it all. She needed some release to it. How could she end things? And she knew that until she ended this, she couldn't go on with her life.
The more she thought of it, the more her tears fell.
Suddenly, without warning, Hunt came inside. He took one look at her and opened his arms to her.
Jodi sat there, staring at him, but when he sat down beside her, she didn't protest as he pulled her to him. He was warm and strong and so comforting; she couldn't refuse.
“Someday, you're going to tell me about it, Jodi,” he whispered. “Someday.”
Out of the blue, she gazed up at him, stopped her crying and pleaded, “W…would you sing to me?”
“What?” He nearly laughed until he saw her face, then realizing she was as strung up as some of the cows, he nodded. “Only to you, Jodi…only to you.”
And with that, he cradled her, and sang her a lullaby. His baritone voice was so smooth, so tender. She smiled a little and cuddled against him.
It was the most peaceful sound she had ever heard and it did soothe her. So much so she went straight to sleep in his arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
If Hunt thought his problems were over, he had another think coming. As he rode ahead to the other herd he was helping, he realized they had had visitors too. Indians. However, these cowboys hadn't used their heads and the Indians had stampeded their herd. Had they followed his advice, this never would have happened.
“Why aren't you out after the cattle?” Hunt asked, his voice belying his anger with them.
“Two of my men got shot up last night, lost five horses and about fifty cows,” the cowboy responded.
“Have you sent anyone after them?” Hunt inquired, glancing about the camp and seeing a lot of men standing around doing nothing.
“Everyone's beat, we been chasing them all night long.” The cowboy leaned against the chuck wagon negligently.
Hunt sized them up quickly. Without a good boss, drovers often got like this. Everything was too dangerous, or too much work.
“Now you don't look like greenhorns to me. You know what you have to do. Those cattle need to be rounded up while you can still track them. We're in dangerous territory. You got farmers here in Kansas that don't want you on their land, and Indians that want beef, weather that won't let up. But you are seasoned drovers, the lot of you. This is what you do. You don't lay down on the job. You get your butts up and in the saddle. You find the cattle and push on. There are three herds behind mine and everyone has the same destination. But no one is going do this for you. Now, get going,” Hunt demanded, making all of them jump.
“You ain't our boss,” one of the men commented as he sauntered about the camp.
>
“No, well, somebody has to be. And it sure looks like I'm elected. Now get in the saddle or leave this camp and don't come back,” Hunt muttered thickly, his legs wide apart, his gun ready.
When they barely started to move, Hunt pulled his gun. “All right, whose outfit does this belong to?”
“We're takin' it to Young and Company,” one of the drovers shouted and snickered, “But they belong to Miller and Company back in San Antonio.”
“How many cattle do you have?”
“Twenty-five hundred.”
“They been inspected and road branded?” Hunt asked.
“Yeah, everything is legal. But it looks like we won't be taking orders from you,” the smart young drover added.
“Then get your gear and get out. You'll draw pay if the owner says so.” Hunt aimed his gun straight at him.
“You crazy?”
“Nope, just determined to get this bunch out of my way. So, if you don't move right now, I'm going to stampede them again and you'll be another two days getting them back in line. Now move it, cowboys.” Hunt raised his pistol.
Before he knew what had happened, a Mexican came up from behind, fired a shot at Hunt, and the cows stampeded. Hunt was hit in the side. He recoiled from the hot, burning pain, but he showed no outward signs of it. Instead, he steadied himself and pointed the pistol at the smart-mouthed cowboy. The Mexican had lit out in the confusion. “If you want any pay, you better get after it, 'cause I know the outfit you're working for and they'll expect you to deliver those cows.”
